the wonder we bear

thank you for the improbable gift of being alive

Dear friends.

I’m so grateful to you. It’s a true kindness that you take this moment to read a post that won’t lift blue over red, or red over blue, or your right versus my wrong, or this devastation over that one.

I’m grateful because there’s good news, too. And you’re here and I’m here so let’s share it. Consider this a pause from regularly scheduled programming.

For a moment, we can just be. Together.

Because, and forgive my zeal, I love life. I love that we get to be. Together.

I love the microcosms we keep in our homes, and the macrocosm that will eventually devour our homes.

And us.

I love the redwoods and the AI, the rainbows and the chemtrails.

I love lamps and bonfires, fast cars and slow walks.

And the creatures?

How about lizards doing push-ups?

Or the cardinal in my winter yellow yard?

Dogs fussing at the window. Cats, aloof.

And the humans, too.

Doting and dazzled fathers wring out my heart, but the mothers— the divine speaks through a mother’s devotion.

Or inventors? Courageous and insistent hands persuading an idea to live.

Or soldiers? Booted and brave men and women holding hard lines so the rest of us can wander and rest, mostly safe on soft ground.

Or farmers? Adoptive parents of the land, caretaking our dirt and tending its children.

I love engineers, too, for their trust in the order of the world, and attempts to temporarily relieve it of our weight. And teachers, so long as they let the children fish in all the wild ways they will. Because what do teachers know, anyway, that children didn’t demand they learn?

Or the young men in trucks in the morning, waiting at the light and dreaming of ways to provide for a family they haven’t encountered.

And the old women knitting hats for unsheltered heads.

And neighbors making cookies to leave on a doorstep.

And a delivery driver willing to take thanks.

In the wintertime, especially, in the long third week of a meandering January, I love conversations about weather and the layers we wear and remove, depending.

And I love the aching, dry bodies beneath the layers, too.

Or the lithe and willing bodies.

Or the robust and resilient bodies.

All the bodies awaiting care. Or touch. Or some quiet nod from empty spaces that a body belongs here.

And the hearts, too.

Down the street, a church building opens its doors so neighbors can sleep warmly. Except the doors don’t open on their own but by the hands of a machinist who shapes car parts, and a great-grandmother who cares for her disabled husband, and a retired government worker, an adolescent eager to be acknowledged, a medical assistant in scrubs. Someone makes the dinner and someone else makes the beds and this family spends the cold evening together, talking or resting and finally sleeping while the grass ices over.

How much wonder can I bear?

Every wonder the world is capable of creating is the wonder we bear.

I’m fascinated, not fathoming.

Fascinating, too, unfathomable.

Finite and fleeting and small; reflecting, conducting, and empty.

A miracle and a devastation and a healing.

A journey and a homecoming.

A balm, a bomb— you and me, both.

And the only truth seems to be darkness and light and the choices we make between them.

Usually, inconsistently. Often, unknowing.

So the celebration might be reserved for the light’s return. Especially in the darkest hours.

So, my friends, I celebrate you.

A shooting star and a firefly.

A sun and a rocket.

A proton, carrying on.

Thank you for reflecting here.

I love you.